


Thigh Guy

by Zugzwang (thunderdone)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blowjobs, Body Positivity, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, M/M, PWP, Thighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7645645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderdone/pseuds/Zugzwang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos has always been a thigh guy, when it comes to sex. He's never cared about butts, cared even less about boobs, but thighs are his thing. Cecil Palmer has the thighs of a god.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thigh Guy

**Author's Note:**

> I regret everything. It's way too early, I haven't edited this, but you know what, oh well, it's going up and I'll edit it when I'm home. Also this is sort of based off a story I heard recently. Also this is the first ever sexual thing I've written on my own, and I know I really need to improve.

Carlos had always been a thigh guy. When given the cliché question of "boobs or butts" two things came to his mind: A. Don't you remember how gay I am and B. Neither, thanks. Asses are okay, but I know something better. Since the moment he first felt that tug in the bottommost pit of his stomach when he figured out for the first time love can be more than holding hands and watching movies, thighs just stood out to him more than any other body part.

Thighs were also close to the top of the reasons why Carlos thought he was straight for a bit. There were the obvious reasons: scientific improbability of it, denial of that idea although he knew his mother would support him wholeheartedly, he didn't know what it actually felt like to be gay, if there was any sort of feeling. More subtle reasons had him hang onto that notion for an extra couple months: he had gotten off to straight porn before, love and lust at a young age were hard to discern, all his favorite books never addressed the subject, and thighs.

Before he ever met Cecil Palmer, if he had to cite the epitome of thighs, it would have to be his old college boyfriend. But he was out of the way, and now, Carlos really did have the perfect thighs on his side. Scientifically, he was able to identify the elements within thighs that he liked and which parts, together, made them optimal.

Possibly the most important element of thighs, to him, were circumference. Of course, in the long run, if a person had a compatible personality with his own but tiny thighs, he wouldn't turn them down, he'd still love them. But thick thighs saved lives. They shook in ways thin thighs couldn't, tensing up before climax until all the tension suddenly fell away. The relaxation, falling into his hands from where they once were around his head, the little twist to make his hands more cushioned.

Stretch marks were another contender for the Wonders of Thighs. Unlike many, Carlos enjoyed them. Not the concept of them, he hated thinking about how other people would look at them, or how the person looked at themselves for them. Those just tore him apart. But the feeling of them under his fingers, rows of hills leading to a deep, magenta valley of a fresher one. There were the pale little scars of them, sometimes temporary mountain ranges within a sea of valleys.

Hair was a tricky subject. Usually, he didn't mind it. But for some reason, particular lengths just bothered him. They were a pain when biting down, letting the skin underneath turn purple under his teeth. The little hairs scraped against his tongue, and the longer ones weren't fun to have on your tongue. If any of them happened to stay in your mouth once you drew away, it would be virtually impossible to get it off. If he had a choice, he would pick shaved ones. But, of course, he had nothing against what people did with their legs. Their legs, their business.

Back to the thighs at and in hand. Cecil Palmer's thighs.

To set the record straight, Carlos found all of Cecil to be perfect and unimaginably wonderful in whatever task he was performing, no matter how menial. The way his hips swept from one side to another as he made coffee in the morning while humming some tune, how he always flicked his wrists out, giving way to a waft of his cologne if it was early enough in the morning, the care with which he smoothed the bedspread and gave it some new fabric to develop to during the day. All of it was perfect to Carlos, and he couldn't ask for more.

Cecil wasn't one to show off his thighs. Usually his pants consisted of some strange fabric, whether fuzzy or woven from large strips of fabric or even something he claimed to be businesslike although it would look more in place at a disco. And they were just that: pants, sometimes to the middle of his calf or knees, but usually down to his ankles. Surprising, especially, to Carlos since they lived in a desert.

It was difficult for Carlos to not pull Cecil into his lap and have his way with the man when he wore those faded blue shorts that stopped as high as they could manage without being considered inappropriate at any level. The thrum of his heart within his chest was, and probably will never be replicated with as much life it brought to Carlos that first time. He did his best not to stare, but a few things were clear through the glances he was able to get: Cecil did, in fact, shave his legs, he must have worked out based on the toned yet still thick thighs, and he had stretch marks.

The second time Carlos saw Cecil's thighs, the two of them were pressed together, and yet still, Carlos didn't get a good look at them. Other things took priority, mainly the teeth on his neck and the icy hand around his cock. He would have time on another day to care for Cecil, this day was devoted to Cecil caring for him, who had his second hand fumbling around the bed, searching for the protection and lubricant he knew they left out somewhere.

Finally, a month or so after the original temptation, Carlos was blessed with being able to get up close and personal with Cecil Palmer's thighs, and they were everything he could've wished for.

With rough lips, he pressed kisses into the valleys he would one be familiar with. In the pale light of Cecil's bedside lamp, the older ones shone, little rivers through an already pale expanse of skin, spidering off into their own directions. With the pad of his thumb, Carlos stroked down his inner thigh, watching the skin pull down, the marks disappearing just for a few seconds before he removes his thumbs. Cecil's thighs are virtually hairless, except for the few, hard to reach areas like the very backs. But virtually is very impressive, nonetheless.

Carlos begins to leave little marks on Cecil now, starting low, close to his knee, with smaller bruises, barely a centimeter in diameter. But as he moved further up, they grew in both number and size, increasing to about an inch. Carefully, Carlos copied the kisses and bites from one leg over to the other. Not because they had to be symmetrical, but he preferred it that way. More aesthetically pleasing to they eye, proven by science of what brains consider perfection.

From there, things escalated, as things seem to do when lovers collide. The whole thing seemed pretty normal to Carlos, at first. He pleasured Cecil, who was very vocal about how he felt and what he wanted Carlos to do more of, and was overall pleased with himself, even if he wasn't the one actually being toyed with. Cecil's hand gripped his hair in a vice as he urged Carlos on with a plethora a praise, his voice breaking up an octave.

As expected, Cecil came, with Carlos still pressed down around him, nose buried into the little patch of hair above his groin. But, unexpectedly, his thighs tensed around Carlos. Briefly, Carlos was proud of himself for hypothesizing correctly around the fact that Cecil probably worked out, until his head began to hurt. The arms of his glasses were pressed painfully into his skull as Cecil rode out his climax. Blood previously focused on another area entirely seemed to rush back to his head, firing neurons that told him to _get the hell out of there right now your head is about to be crushed_.

The need for air and space quickly subsided, though, as the tension slipped from Cecil and he lay, panting and worn, but grinning. Carlos passed the grin back with a sheepish tone twisted into it once he was sure he could manage it. As quickly as it flooded his brain, the blood settled back to its original place. Carlos ignored the want still broiling in his abdomen, though, in exchange for a soft but firm hold, and a new scientific question: Can someone die from having their head squished between someone else's thighs? And if so, how can I sign up?

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me how to improve, I'd really like and need that.


End file.
